


Come Back Together Like The Rising Sun

by amyfortuna



Series: The Union Of Fingon & Maedhros [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Cool Dad Fingolfin, Crying Maedhros, Inappropriate Humor, Laws and Customs of the Eldar, M/M, Oral Sex, Same-Sex Marriage, Thangorodrim, The Land of Echoes, a reference to possible Daeron/Maglor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3501437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after Thangorodrim, Fingon takes Maedhros on a walking holiday through the country that would become known as Dor-lomin, and falls in love with the land. (He's already in love with Maedhros.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back Together Like The Rising Sun

**Author's Note:**

> B2MeM Challenge: [General Prompts:](http://b2mem.livejournal.com/284221.html?thread=4170557#t4170557) "Write a story...reflecting identification with or connection to one’s land, country or culture." This is possibly a somewhat different sort of connection to the land than envisioned! But it does have a little subtle reference to the poem quoted in the prompt. 
> 
> The title is from the Darren Hayes song "Explode".

Maedhros was but newly up from his bed after his long trial on the walls of Thangorodrim, and already Fingon despaired of getting him to take care of himself and not leap immediately back into training, pushing his body far beyond what it could endure. He was already riding although he could hardly mount a horse without help, was already trying to train with a sword even though he could hardly hold it up for longer than a few moments at a time. 

“Maitimo,” he said at last, after another day of Maedhros wearing himself out under the anxious eyes of healers, his brothers, and Fingon, “I have an idea. We should explore this new and fair land ourselves. We have sent out scouts, but there are places not far away which have not yet been mapped. What would you say to a gentle walk in the nearby countryside, to help build up your strength? We would be gone some days, you could have time to think, and it would be just us?” 

The question was tentative, for they had not yet talked of all that lay between them. Fingon knew, at least, that Maedhros had not aided to burn the ships, but beyond that, there was little he understood about what Maedhros had been through. 

Maedhros sighed. “Oh, very well,” he said at last, somewhat peevishly. “If I must be coddled, I would rather it were done out of sight of the people I am still meant to be king of, and I can probably endure it better at your hands than any other.” 

Fingon’s face brightened. “When Laurelin’s fruit lights the horizon, then,” he said, and hurried away to get supplies together for their journey. 

——

At early dawn the next day, Fingon put his head into the rough wooden building that was for the healers, where Maedhros had stayed for nearly eight months now. He was yet thin and weary, but his arm was healed as much as it ever would. It was his own insistence on already pushing his body to its limits that was keeping him back, at this point. 

Maedhros came out to join him, and Fingon took the lead of a horse, where he had loaded all supplies they might need, a tent, cooking gear, and healing herbs. If need be, they could also ride the horse, if danger met them, or some injury befell them. 

They were alone. Fingon made clear to his father and to Maglor, still regent in Maedhros’ respite, that they would be heading into lands already made safe, toward the West and South rather than the East and North. It was unlikely that there would be any Orcs, or indeed, anyone at all, in that direction. There was no need for a guard. 

Lake Mithrim shone under the dawning sky, red and silver in the light. Fingon turned their footsteps away from it towards the low hills that rose in the southwest. For a long time they walked in silence, feeling the fresh cool air of the new day, looking at the plants around them, content only to breathe and exist. From time to time, Fingon would glance up at Maedhros’ face, calm and expressionless, but at least now at rest. 

Around them the wind sighed through the meadow, and as the sun rose, they began to see far across the land, even picking out details on the hills they were heading toward. It was still a novelty, after so many years in the dark and cold, for Fingon to feel warmth and see light. It was a dim echo of Valinor and the beauty they were now barred from, but it was still achingly beautiful. 

Almost unconsciously as they walked, Fingon reached out to take Maedhros’ left hand. After a look of surprise, Maedhros gave it to him, and together they went on, the horse following behind, not hurrying. Maedhros’ hand was warm and dry against his, filling Fingon with hope. 

When the sun was nearly overhead, Fingon stopped in the shade of a tree, with a large rock beneath it where they could sit, and they ate a quick meal, not lingering long. They did not speak much, and Maedhros let Fingon help him and serve him in a way he had been very reluctant to do before. There was something about being out from under the eyes of all that made it easier for Maedhros to be given help. 

After this, they walked on, picking up the pace slightly. Soon they reached the low hills they had seen in the morning, and there paused briefly. 

“I want to skirt around these hills,” Fingon said. “We’ll go due West for a while and then head South again once we have passed them by, perhaps tomorrow morning.”

Maedhros nodded. It was all grassland at the foot of the hills, but the hills themselves were thickly forested. It would be much easier walking to go around them than through. 

When night fell, they were far along the way to getting around the foot of the hills, but not far enough yet that they could turn South. Fingon made camp, setting up their tent, taking all the bundles from the horse and stowing them inside, and permitting the horse to wander and eat grass as he pleased, to return when called for. He allowed Maedhros to help with small tasks that could be done one-handed but ensured he did nothing he could not easily cope with. 

The fire started, he left Maedhros to tend it, and walked a short distance with his bow and arrows. It wasn’t long until he had shot a rabbit, and quickly field-dressing it, he carried it back to the camp. 

Maedhros ate with somewhat better appetite than he had previously, but he still wasn’t saying much. He did not look angry or unhappy, just lost in thought. 

In their shared tent, which was very small, Fingon curled up behind him, putting an arm around his waist, as they used to sleep so long ago when they travelled together. Maedhros went very still, and then turned over, facing Fingon.

“I don’t need pity,” he said, very low, almost as if he feared they might be overheard.

Fingon’s eyes flashed at him in the dark. “Then it is good that what I feel for you is not by any means pity,” he said, not withdrawing. They had come now to the talk they so needed, more quickly than he expected, but he was ready for it. 

“What do you feel, Findekano?” Maedhros said, not looking at Fingon’s eyes. 

“Faithful love, first of all,” Fingon said. “Always that. You hold my heart.” Maedhros raised his eyes to meet Fingon’s, hope fighting fear in his eyes. Fingon went on. “A great gladness that you are here and alive. Grief and sadness, for you have suffered greatly, and where you suffer so do I. Sorrow and pain, that you suffer, and that you make your own suffering worse. Confusion and questions about what it was that happened to make you so despair of life.” 

Fingon took a deep breath. “I do not say, let us be as we once were, for we are now Exiles from that land. Mountains divide us and the Sea lies between and we can never regain its bliss. But here in this new land, we can build ourselves anew, and here, I would give my heart into your keeping.” 

Maedhros, overwhelmed, crossed the space that divided them and pressed his mouth to Fingon’s. Their arms went around each other eagerly, finding again the ways they fit together like no one and nothing else ever had. 

“I am not worthy of so great a gift as your heart,” Maedhros said at last, drawing back, but raising his hand to pass through Fingon’s hair. “And yet, if you can take this mangled one of mine in exchange for it, I can but accept it.”

“Shh, Maitimo,” Fingon said, kissing his wrist. “You are not mangled.” 

Maedhros shook his head. “Oh, but I fear I am. I was betrayed and abandoned. I led my soldiers to death, I acted foolishly, I underestimated our Enemy’s strength from the very first. And then I was tortured by Morgoth - please do not ask me to tell you of it, for I cannot!” He clung to Fingon like a child drowning, burying his face against Fingon’s shoulder, breaking into passionate weeping. 

Fingon’s arms wrapped around him, and for a long time Fingon simply held Maedhros, letting him cry, gently soothing him, stroking his hair and making soft sounds of comfort. 

The storm of tears passed after a while, and Maedhros looked up again with damp eyelashes. “It’s really over and this is not some ill dream, is it?”

“It’s really over,” Fingon said. “You are here with me. We lie together upon the grassland at the foot of gently-sloping hills. Away in the distance a stream murmurs. And here - this warmth you feel is my warmth, and this face you touch is my face, and this body my body.” He bent forward, kissing Maedhros, their lips clinging together for a long sweet moment. 

“Stay with me, just like this,” Maedhros said finally. “I am weary of pretending to be strong when I am not.” 

“I know,” Fingon said, stroking his hair. “This is why I brought you here.” 

Maedhros smiled. “You always were a wise one, little love,” he said, using the endearment he had used for Fingon back in Tirion, long before grief and sorrow came between them. Fingon smiled at the words and kissed his forehead, and together they nestled down into sleep for a while. 

—--

When morning came, it was a dim day, clouds covering the light of the Sun. The wind, stronger now, roared over the grasslands. Fingon looked out of the tent, then crawled back in and settled down next to Maedhros once more. 

“There may be rain shortly,” he said. “We may wish to wait for a while before setting out.” 

Maedhros pulled Fingon close. “That is no hardship,” he said. 

Soon the raindrops were pattering down on their tent. Maedhros and Fingon lay together in a comfortable silence, warm and cozy in their shared blankets, eyes locked together, hands gently caressing each other over their clothing. So close like this, it was almost impossible not to communicate mind-to-mind and so they did, sharing with each other images and feelings of what they had each endured. Maedhros only briefly touched on his long capture behind the walls of Angband, but did show Fingon how it felt when the ships burned, and that he thought Fingon would abandon him and turn back to Valinor then. Fingon, for his part, shared little of his experiences on the Ice, only his determination to find Maedhros once more. 

The dark clouds over them spilled rain out for some while, and it was well into the morning when it stopped and they emerged, to a meadow shining with wet, and to a rainbow off in the distance, in the direction they wished to go. 

Fingon quickly packed up, while Maedhros called the horse back. They walked onward, westward in the direction of the end of the rainbow, holding hands. Soon they came to the end of the hills, and turned southward, travelling along the edge of them. Here they encountered a forest, but it was light and airy, with many breaks and meadows, a new forest rather than an old one. 

Noontide came and passed them by, and still they walked under the trees. All was silent save for the soft breezes playing with the leaves and the singing of birds. Once a herd of deer passed by, looking up to regard them with solemn, watchful eyes. 

When they came across a stream that bubbled down from the hills, they stopped to rest and let the horse drink. Fingon refilled their waterskins too, added them to the horse’s burden. They sat for a while in the shade of a large tree together, Fingon leaning back against its trunk, Maedhros stretched out, resting his head on Fingon’s thigh. They did not speak much. Fingon gently stroked Maedhros’ hair back from his face, and they watched the green grass move gently in the breeze and tried to identify the sounds of the different birds they heard. 

Some while later, they moved on, through the forest. Any sound could be heard for miles, it was so still. 

As darkness fell, they settled down again, in the shadows of the trees. It was a mild evening, a bright red sunset in the west. Fingon and Maedhros sat together near the warm fire, arms around each other, looking off into the distance, minds close together, remembering events that now felt far away and long ago, when friendship flamed to passion, in a time of remembered bliss. 

“We were so young,” Maedhros said at last, breaking the stillness. “We had no idea what we were doing.” 

“It has not been so much time since those days,” Fingon said, bringing his hand to Maedhros’, holding it warmly. 

“Not much time, but so much else,” Maedhros said. He turned, meeting Fingon’s eyes, suddenly very earnest. “In those long-ago days, I loved thee, but that love was but a pale echo and a shadow of what I feel for thee now.”

Fingon murmured something inarticulate and kissed Maedhros softly on the lips. “Say on, love,” he said, sensing Maedhros was not done yet. 

Maedhros ducked his head, blushing, but then raised his eyes, meeting Fingon’s questioning face. “I wish - “ he began, but then changed what he was saying, speaking quickly and carefully. “I cannot take vows upon myself. I have made one Oath and it will be all that I can make, indeed already it is too much. Nor can I ever name Manwe and Varda, or call the One to witness.” He swallowed, glanced away, but then looked back again as Fingon waited. “And yet, I would wish, if it were possible, to wed thee, to have thee and no other while Arda stands. I cannot take vows with thee, but my heart is thine and so shall ever be.” He looked away, face burning, almost as though he wished to hide his face in the hand that Fingon was holding. 

A great light came into Fingon’s eyes as he looked at Maedhros. He dropped Maedhros’ hand and reached for his face, turning it back to look at him, holding him there. 

“What need have I of vows when I have thy very heart?” he said, pressing a kiss to Maedhros’ lips. “Vows are but words reflecting the heart’s devotion. Take no more oaths, Maitimo, but wed me now. We need no witness but ourselves, need call no names but each other’s, need prove nothing and exchange nothing but our faithful commitment together.” 

Maedhros smiled. “If this is to be the first marriage on these shores, it may also be the most untraditional,” he said, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Fingon’s. “Yet, if you will have me even like this, I will do this with you and gladly.” He took a deep breath. “Did I not say you were wise, before?”

“You did,” Fingon whispered, “and followed it with words that I love to hear.”

“Little love,” Maedhros murmured. “My little love.” 

Fingon kissed him deeply. Around them, the air was still. The light in the West was fading, the stars coming out. The erratic Moon in his courses was faint above, a silver disc barely shining. No birds sang, no breeze moved in the trees. 

On the soft green grass, Fingon laid Maedhros down, still kissing him. Their arms were around each other, holding tight to one another, and for a long time they simply kissed, lost in the wonder of exploring one another, this time knowing it was not just youthful passion, but real and true love that held them close. 

This was marriage: solemn, intense, a meeting of minds and bodies in passionate bliss, with will and purpose to be solely devoted to each other until the end of Arda itself. If this worked, and despite Fingon’s words, he was not absolutely certain that it would work without the saying of vows and the naming of the Name, all would know that each was wed, although not definitely who they were wed to. But marriage, of itself, could not be concealed. 

It was fully dark by the time they looked up again, and the fire flickered brightly, casting shadows on the nearby trees. Above them, branches reached entangled, and beyond that stars danced. Fingon’s face shone in the light of the flames, radiant with joy. 

“Do you want to go inside?” he asked, gesturing to the tent nearby.

“No,” Maedhros said softly. “Here, under the stars, I want you inside me. I want to see your face in the firelight when you find your release.” He gave a sharp smile. “If you desire witnesses, we shall have them - trees and stars, the solid earth beneath us, and the night-breezes to caress you on my behalf, where one hand can never be enough.” 

“If it is your hand, it will always be enough,” Fingon whispered, bending down to brush Maedhros’ lips with his own again. “I am glad to stay here, only -,” he moved away, sitting up - “give me one moment.” He entered the tent, grabbing a large blanket and a small bottle of massage oil, then appeared again. 

Maedhros was sitting up, brushing his hair through with his hand, taking the leaves and grass out of it. 

“Can I do that?” Fingon said. “I wish to braid your hair.” He laid the blanket out on the grass, and sat down on it with his legs apart, gesturing to Maedhros to sit down between them. Maedhros made his way over, and nestled down against Fingon, who gently began combing his hair through, parting and separating it for braiding. 

Maedhros sighed softly with pleasure at the feel of Fingon’s hands in his hair, gently tugging at the scalp from time to time in an entirely pleasurable way. They sat together in warm silence for a time, Fingon’s hands busy, Maedhros content to feel Fingon against him. 

“I think,” Maedhros said at last, very softly, “I don’t want to rule our people.” 

Fingon, absorbed in Maedhros’ hair, made a small noise to show he was listening. 

“Everyone needs to know what they can bear,” he continued. “And if another can do something better, then that person should do it, not the one who has already proven to have failed.” 

Fingon shook his head. “I have seen your mind on this,” he said. “I fear you are too harsh on yourself in this matter.” 

“No,” Maedhros said. “For it is more than just one tactical failure. It is all the future failures that lie ahead, and all the mistakes that lie behind. And, most importantly, I do not wish it, I do not want it.” 

He twisted around, glancing up at Fingon, who quickly tied off the end of the braid and let it go. 

“Who would you have then as High King?” Fingon said, already knowing the answer. 

“I would have you,” Maedhros said, “but that is not possible. Yet your father would lead where I cannot, has led where I did not, held your people together on the Ice. It would anger my own father beyond measure, and it is partly for that reason that this course recommends itself to me: your father shall have my crown, and his children after him.”

“You would take your own family out of the line of succession?” Fingon asked, his arm sliding around Maedhros’ waist. 

Maedhros smiled at him, moving around to nestle in his arms. “Well. Not entirely,” he said and kissed Fingon, teasing, light. “My husband the crown prince? I shall expect to have some voice at court, wherever that ends up being.” 

Fingon laughed, bending his head to breathe into Maedhros’ ear. “Husband. I like the sound of that.” Delicately, he traced the point of Maedhros’ ear with his tongue. Maedhros groaned softly, pressing his head against Fingon’s chest. 

“Would you undo me far too early in the proceedings?” he said. “We haven’t even removed our clothes, yet.” 

“Then we should,” Fingon whispered. 

Carefully, helping each other, they took off all their clothes and their boots, laying the clothing in a folded pile just inside the tent, with the boots standing outside. The evening was still mild and warm, with a small night breeze now picking up, swaying in the trees above them. The Moon shone brighter now, and they could see each other clearly in the light of the fire. 

For a long moment, they only looked at each other across the blanket, the solemn weight of what they were about to do settling on them. This would forever change them, make them part of each other, open their minds to one another in a way they had never experienced with anyone before. And then Fingon smiled, arms reaching out for Maedhros, who came gladly into them. Their bodies meeting, skin against skin, they kissed each other, warm and long, passion sparking up between them like the roaring fire. 

They fell together to their knees, entwined. Fingon’s hands slid down Maedhros’ sides and he sighed into the touch, pressing his hips forward into Fingon’s. Their erections brushed, and both whimpered, pressing closer, desperate for more contact. Fingon took Maedhros’ prick into his hand, stroking it slowly, methodically, watching Maedhros’ face all the while. 

Maedhros, with only one hand available, slid it to the back of Fingon’s neck, under his hair, caressing the skin that he knew Fingon found so sensitive there. His other arm came up to steady Fingon as he swayed, holding him in place. 

Fingon bent and kissed the scarred flesh of Maedhros’ right arm tenderly. Maedhros gasped at the contact. “That feels good,” he whispered, sounding surprised. 

Fingon shot him a quick smile, then darted his tongue out, along the edge of the scar. Maedhros took in a great breath, overwhelmed by the dual sensation of Fingon’s hand on his prick and Fingon’s mouth on his skin. 

“Findekano, Findekano,” he whispered at last, voice gone entirely breathless. “Oh, Fin. I’m going to - Findekano!” he said warningly, the name louder than the rest. 

Fingon drew to a halt, breathing steadily, and that’s when they heard the echoes for the first time, Fingon’s name, repeated in urgent, desperate tones, fading away into the distance. They looked at each other, amazed, and then Fingon broke into a laugh, followed by Maedhros. 

“The very hills cried out to warn me, then,” he whispered, letting go of Maedhros’ prick in favour of putting his arms around him. Maedhros was blushing furiously. 

“Oh, I do hope this land is as empty as you said it was,” he murmured against Fingon’s skin. 

“You may have startled some deer, love,” Fingon said, “but aught else, and we would have long heard it by now.” 

“I would like to think so,” Maedhros said. “But, little love, the time has come for you to cry _my_ name to the hills and see if they will answer.” He pounced on Fingon, who dropped backwards, sprawling gracefully on the blanket, arms and legs spread in a gesture of surrender. 

Maedhros settled down over him, and worked his way down Fingon’s body, nibbling, caressing, teasing with hands and mouth. The curve and point of Fingon’s ear was traced, his neck lightly bitten, every finger sucked and the inside of his wrist outlined with clever fingers. Maedhros then went on to lick one of Fingon’s nipples, drawing a long groan from him, and repeated the process on the other side, just to hear him groan again. Sliding down him, Maedhros finally reached Fingon’s erection - and bypassed it, kissing his inner thighs, the backs of his knees, and laving a very sensitive spot on his right ankle for some while, until Fingon was shaking with need. 

“Please, Maitimo, please,” he begged shamelessly, and Maedhros finally took pity on him, taking his prick into his mouth. The wonderful taste of him, long-remembered, exploded across his tongue and Maedhros could not hold back a groan of his own. Fingon arched up into him, fists clenched at his sides, eyes wide open locked with Maedhros’. 

It was a mental touch, a brush of a warning that he was almost too close, that got Maedhros to finally pull away, himself shaking with the need to finish his beloved off, to put an end to their sweet torment. But they were not done yet, not married yet. Maedhros picked up the bottle of oil from the side of the blanket and held it out to Fingon. 

“Please, now,” he said, and Fingon sat up, taking the oil. 

“Lie down for me, husband,” Fingon said, his words laced with innuendo and meaning. His fingers were shaking as he removed the stopper from the bottle. Maedhros lay down, his long body pale in the moonlight. The shadows of the fire danced along his skin, lighting up his hair. For a long moment, Fingon could only look at him, hand poised to pour the oil into his other hand. He caught himself at last, and poured the oil onto hands suddenly grown steady and sure, moving between Maedhros’ thighs. 

Maedhros’ erection brushed his face as he bent down, reaching underneath to seek out the tight entrance to Maedhros’ body. Hand slick with oil, he pushed one finger in. Maedhros groaned, throwing his head back, resting up on his elbows. Fingon added another finger, making sure there was plenty of oil. He brought the fingers back out and slicked the remainder of the oil over his own erection. 

“Findekano,” Maedhros said. “Now. Don’t wait any longer. Please.” Falling back onto the ground, he lay waiting, the most beautiful thing that Fingon had ever seen, and now entirely his. 

“I will love you until the end of Arda,” Fingon said, and pressed inside. 

Mental barriers fell as physical ones did, and they poured into each other’s minds, concealing nothing, all doors unlocked, all barriers down. Light filled them, binding them together. 

“Maitimo!” Fingon cried, and the hills echoed with it. 

“Findekano!” was returned, and the mountains sang the name. 

And they moved together, body uniting with body, mind and heart with mind and heart. Release, when at last it came upon them, was an explosion of white light, probably visible for miles, followed by a contented, peaceful, darkness. 

They held each other in the dark for a long time, slowly coming back to the awareness of their physical bodies. The fire was in embers beside them, and the stars and the Moon were all in different places. Fingon was lying on top of Maedhros, the end of one of his braids slowly coming undone. Maedhros felt slightly sticky and sore but utterly at peace, and quite willing to lie here with Fingon for the entirety of time itself. 

A faint light began to appear in the sky behind them, the harbinger of a coming dawn. Fingon stirred, looked up at Maedhros, and smiled fondly. 

“Good morning, husband,” he said. Maedhros tweaked the end of his braid that was falling apart but said nothing, only smiled contentedly. 

Fingon slid off him, but curled up next to him, drawing the end of the blanket over their bodies. “I love this land,” he said, looking around them happily. “Dor-lomin I will call it, the Land of Echoes, and I claim it, as my name was the first name that ever echoed from these hills.” 

“Then my very last act as High King of the Noldor,” Maedhros said, “shall be to ensure that all these lands will be yours, however else matters shall go.” A shadow crossed his face. “For my part, I fear I will not have so kind a fate as to share these lands with you.” 

“I know,” Fingon said. “We shall spend much time apart in the years to come, but what must be will be, and I would not have wed you if I did not know that.” 

Maedhros leaned in and kissed him, quite thoroughly. “We shall have eagerly-anticipated visits, letters, and this,” he touched Fingon’s temple. “We will be able to communicate across distances, if we practice.” A mischievous smile lit his face. “I suggest we start now.” He kissed Fingon again, long and lingering. Their minds embraced, coming together once more into one. 

———

Nearly a month later, Fingon and Maedhros strolled into the small settlement by Lake Mithrim, trailed by their faithful horse, to be greeted by a worried Maglor. 

“I was on the point of sending out search parties - ooh!” He suddenly broke off, looking at their faces, and then just as suddenly, inexplicably broke into laughter. 

“What’s so funny?” Maedhros asked. 

Maglor could barely speak for laughing. “Findekano’s - hah! - already taken one of your hands and now you’ve given him the other?” 

“Makalaure!” Fingon exclaimed, scandalised, and then looked up at Maedhros, who looked for a moment like he was about to hit his brother, but then dissolved into laughter himself, leaning weakly on Fingon to hold himself upright. The noise attracted Fingolfin, who came out of the nearest house to see what was going on. 

“What are the pair of you laughing about? Findekano, what…?” Then enlightenment dawned. “Oh.” He pressed his lips together, looking away. “Varda help me. Findekano, well, I can’t say I didn’t expect this someday.” He looked back at Maedhros and Fingon with their arms around each other, Maedhros suppressing his laughter on Fingon’s shoulder, and couldn’t quite repress a smile. “You should have had a betrothal, rings, all of that.” The smile was evident on his face now. “But that doesn’t matter. All your lives you have made each other happy, and may you always continue to do so.” He strode across, embracing them both warmly, kissing first Fingon’s cheek, then Maedhros’, and stepping away with a heartfelt smile. 

Maedhros straightened up, gesturing to Maglor. “If it please you, brother, I will take my crown back now.”

“Gladly,” Maglor said, taking off the slender coronet and handing it over. “I need to compose a song for the pair of you, and that’s easier done without the cares of a people on your head.” 

He turned to depart. “Wait a moment, brother,” Maedhros said, setting the crown on his own head. “I would have you as witness.” 

He took a deep breath, his arm around Fingon’s waist, Fingolfin and Maglor standing in front of him, waiting, all three of them looking up at him expectantly. 

“First of all, I decree that all the land Findekano and I explored, between the Mountains of Mithrim and the Rainbow Cleft, so called Dor-lomin by Findekano, shall belong to Findekano, his right to reign and rule under the High King’s lordship, so long as these lands shall last.” 

He bent his head. “We bear witness,” Fingolfin and Maglor said together. 

“One more,” Maedhros said, releasing Fingon, who stepped away to stand next to Maglor, and moving closer to Fingolfin. “It is in my heart that there is another who better deserves the name of High King of the Noldor than I. Therefore then, upon this day and on this ground, do I renounce all my own claim and any claim of my heirs, present and future, to this crown -,” he removed it from his head, “- and do gladly give and endow it to thee, Nolofinwe, and to thy heirs, so long as Arda shall endure.” He handed the crown to Fingolfin, who took it like it was a snake about to bite him, and went to his knees before him. “I here do affirm my loyalty and that of my family to the High King.” 

Fingolfin took a very deep breath, and placed the crown on his own head. 

“Long live the High King!” Fingon said with a grin, and also went to his knees beside Maedhros. 

“What?” said Maglor, glancing from one of them to the others. “This is - Maitimo - what?”

Maedhros looked across at Maglor. “I’m quite serious, Makalaure!” 

Maglor shrugged and went to his knees as well. “It doesn’t matter much on my account. I’m relieved, really. But the rest - they are going to actually kill you, Maitimo, you understand.”

“No, they will not,” Fingolfin said. He took the crown off his head, turning it in his hands idly. “We need to do this formally. We should do something formally, and since there’s little use formally celebrating our first wedding, now that the happy couple have already, ah, done the deed,” he gave Fingon a Look, “we can at least transfer the crown on a formal basis. Maitimo, that will give you a chance to explain to your brothers, and also me, why you are doing this.” 

“Oh, very well,” Maedhros said. Fingolfin put out his hand, and Maedhros took it, standing up. Fingon stood up with him. 

Fingolfin turned the crown over in his hands once more, then handed it back to Maedhros, who stuffed it inside his clothes. 

Maglor got to his feet, dusting himself off, already humming a tune under his breath. “I’m going to write that song now,” he said. “I’m definitely putting in the joke I made about your hand, by the way.” 

Maedhros shook his head. “You’re much happier without the crown, think how much more I will be!” he called after him. Maglor, retreating, flashed a rude gesture at Maedhros, and walked off. 

Fingolfin looked across at Fingon. “Is this what your husband truly wants?” he asked. 

“It is,” Fingon said. 

Fingolfin sighed. ‘Well, then. I’d much rather have planned your wedding, but I suppose if I must…” he trailed off, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps at some point soon, after this is all over, we could plan a feast? Invite absolutely everyone, ply them with drink, make lots of allies?” 

“I never would have thought of that,” Maedhros said. “You’re already much better at this than me.” 

Fingolfin laughed, shaking his head. “May we all be happy on the new journeys we begin this day,” he said, laying a hand on Fingon’s shoulder affectionately, and the other on Maedhros’. “Now come, tell me, _yonyar_ , of this new land you explored.” 

Maedhros took Fingon’s hand in his as they walked back toward the house, Fingon already talking eagerly. The light of the Sun was bright overhead, sparkling off the water and shining on the gold ribbons in Fingon’s braids. There was a long journey yet toward full recovery, but hope, the missing piece of him, was now alive and well. 

\----

**Postscript: Maglor’s Song**

_Of brave Findekano I now sing_  
_The valiant one, the son of our King_  
_And of Maitimo, tall and strong_  
_May their marriage be blest for all Ages long!_

_Close in friendship were they in youth_  
_Always they loved, I say in truth_  
_If you could find one, the other was near_  
_To each other they have always been dear._

_When darkness fell on Valinor at last_  
_And from our lands we thence were cast_  
_Maitimo spoke for his heart’s friend_  
_To send the ships back at journey’s end._

_Father listened not, the ships burned bright_  
_Far away Findekano saw the light_  
_Over the Ice a great journey he came_  
_To prove his love and his valiant name._

_We thought Maitimo to Morgoth lost_  
_But Finno saved him at a great cost_  
_For to save him, he must take a hand_  
_Now the other he takes, with a wedding band!_

_Now, Maitimo, will you make a new oath_  
_A far better one as you plight your troth?_  
_To Finno and Maitimo we raise a glass_  
_For they are wed now and what’s past is past!_

**Additional Note:** This song was performed only once, very late at night during the Mereth Aderthad. Later reports suggest that the singer was quite drunk at the time, and immediately after singing this, challenged Daeron of Doriath to something called an ‘improv musical strip contest’. History does not record the winner of said contest.


End file.
